My Miki

I found the aptly named Heavenly Exit online. I had long accepted massage parlors and escorts as my true sexual home. I have no direct magnet of handsomeness. I can get some women to glance my way, and I have been married twice before to fairly good-looking women.

But I've never been the seducer I dreamed about. Paying for sex has been easier, simpler. It's been my way from the first time I got fucked, with a silver toothed Mexican prostitute in an Arizona whorehouse.

I stopped at HE as it was called on my way home, leaving early from my nearby place of work as a writer for XYZ business news. The lies we tell to sell Wall Street to Main Street. That's the real prostitution.

That first time there, I got Candy, a big boned woman with brown hair and green eyes and a brutish body of sun-tanned skin and animal tattoos. Her breasts were plump, round and easily grabbed. She was efficiently cordial and easily spread her legs for the $250 I offered. She quickly dressed after wiping off the leftovers of our meeting. "Thank you and do come again," she said without irony.

I went back the following week and left to another "come again" farewell.

The third time, Miki was at the front desk. She said Candy was not there. I didn't want to try a new girl and risk not getting fucked. I'd learned that I might have to come back a few times before a girl feels like putting out for a new customer. Some are like that. Some, like Candy, are not.

I walked out into the August summer sun and headed to my car parked around the corner from a building that was home to Heavenly Exit as well as to a karate school, a Chinese take-out and a liquor store that offered free pickles with every purchase of a bottle of red wine.

But I turned around and went back. Why not try the woman with jet black hair and rosy cheeks and almond eyes? Her large breasts poked through the light-colored blouse. At least if I got hold of those breasts I might feel better. I had long lost interest in my wife. We hadn't had sex in three years. Our

good days were behind us. There would be none ahead. The insults swallowed in the beginning became vomit. I couldn't keep it down any longer. The problems people have at the beginning are the ones that are still there at the end.

"Are you available?" I asked.

"Yes," she said.

The rooms were down a thinly carpeted hallway that smelled of foot powder and lavender. The walls inside were bare and painted white. A single floor lamp held a red-light bulb that threw maroon shadows on the ceiling. The massage table covered in thin white sheets had an opening to put your face in. A radio station played 70's music--Fleetwood Mac, Paul McCartney --through a floor speaker in

the corner. A chipped maple wood table in the other corner held bottles of oils, towels and a fragrance candle of Sandalwood.

"Are you police?" Miki asked a question in her Asian accent.

"No."

"What's your name?

I told her my real name. "James. What's yours?"

"Miki."

"Where you from?"

"I born in Hawaii but my family came from South Korea," she said in somewhat broken English.

"You're very beautiful."

"Thank you. You are handsome. I like bald men. You have a good body, not fat. And you are tall."

"You get undressed," she said as she left the room. I was naked after taking off my blue shirt and khaki slacks and lying on the table when she came back just minutes later with a long white towel and red flannel bathrobe.

She placed the towel and bathrobe on a nearby chair. She moved her arms up and began to unbutton her blouse. Each movement of her hands revealed the soft skin of her breasts nestled in a black silk bra.

She then unleashed the button of her jeans, pulled down the zipper and put her hands on her hips and pushed the blue cotton pants toward her feet. Her hips swayed from side to side as she forced the jeans off her pear-shaped hips. She revealed a triangle of blackish small curls. She kicked off her white pumps that held tiny feet and toenails covered in purple and pulled off her pant legs one at a time and dropped them on the floor.

Wrapping her arms toward her back she let loose the bra and her large breasts were set free. She moved forward and got on the table over me.

Her jet-black hair fell over her slumped shoulders. She rolled her hands over my dick and then placed her breasts on me. My hardness was immediate. Then she licked me. With each stroke of her tongue, I came without coming. Her face revealed a devil as she went up and down. She stared at me. I stared at her.

"Are you ready?" she asked. "Yes," I said. I didn't want to say it but I did. I couldn't hold back. I couldn't wait. I might have tried to lick her pussy like I normally do to keep from coming. But I couldn't hold it.

She took out a condom from her rumpled jeans and gently pushed it down my erection. She stretched her short figure out on the table and grabbed me toward her. I stared at her breasts. I smelled the sweet lilac perfume. She took my cock inside with her small hands. She was tight and warm. We rocked each other back and forth. "Fuck that pussy," she said. "Fuck it." With that, there was no time to stop. There was no time to say "Wait, I don't want to come yet."

It was all feeling. It was all body. It was all soul. It was white skin against Asian yellow. It was blue eyes staring at black. It was no hair and a shiny head swept over by tufts of dark mane. The explosion was complete. I fell on top of her, and she put her arms around my neck. My lips touched hers, she touched mine.

It was their first rendezvous. We struggled to breathe on top of each other, first going in different directions, but slowly melting into one another until our inhales and exhales were mirrors of one another. We were breathing together. Our breaths having their own intercourse. I pulled myself up to look at her.

"Are you married?" she asked.

"Yes." My 14-year-old wedding ring was sitting in the glove compartment of my car.

"Too bad," she said. "All the good ones married."

I wondered how many other she asked. I knew I wasn't the first. There was something sad about the question. "I want to smoke," she said getting off the table.

"We can smoke in here. I want my cigarettes too," I answered.

"You smoke? I don't smell it on you."

"I don't want to smell like an ashtray. I keep the smoking down. I do it mostly outside."

"I'm glad you smoke," Miki said.

I loved to smoke. I had a dream growing up as a kid that smoking cigarettes cured some Latin named disease I had.

Sitting on the table next to Miki, I felt drugged. She was injected into me. Her needle was still in my arm. I felt her pushing through me as we dragged on our cigarettes. We smoked one then two cigarettes.

"I have to go," I said. I did have to pretend I liked my wife, daughter and son. Dinner would be in 30 minutes. I would lie through my teeth if I had to, denying where I had been.

"You come back?" Miki asked.

"Yes, I will."

I got dressed and gave her all the cash in my wallet--three hundred dollars. She wrapped herself in the robe. I kissed her on the lips, something Candy and countless others wouldn't do. Miki did. I knew there would be more with this woman ahead for me. I just didn't know how much she would become part of my life. And that's a whole other story.